


Fireteam Gambit

by Vintage (KyberHearts)



Series: set adrift [2]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Crimson Days, Crimson doubles, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Other, gender neutral reader, mild violence, time to bump up that rating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-10-24 02:34:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17695991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KyberHearts/pseuds/Vintage
Summary: "The solo queue for Crimson Doubles is, in the kindest words possible, a hit or miss."or,Being randomly matched with a familiar Hunter isn't as random as you initially believed.





	1. kill the lights

**Author's Note:**

> my first drifter/guardian fic received a lot of positive support which! surprises and delights me!! thanks so much for showing interest

A Titan, a Warlock, and a Hunter enter the ramen noodle bar.

“Yo!” the Titan crows as he leans over the countertop, ignoring the flame broiling at sudden intervals, his helmet already singed and chipped in various places. The Warlock seizes his belt and yanks him back in his seat. The Hunter watches amusedly while scrolling through a digital tablet. “Hey, chef, you seen the Drifter today?”

“I saw him leave about an hour ago. Hasn’t come back since. Maybe he’s watching Crimson Doubles today.”

“Yeah, right,” the Hunter scoffs. “Drifter hates Shaxx.”

“ _Hate_ is too simple a word,” the Warlock interjects. “Despises, loathes, rejects, abhors--”

The Titan places his hand over their mouth. “Anyways,” he says cheerfully, “Who’s playing Doubles today?”

The Hunter shrugs. “Checkin’ the tourney right now.”

“Any teams we know?”

“A few. Fireteams Hyve, Mardi, Vuvuzela, I can’t believe they allowed that name-- and Maledict’s playing against Lyra in the afternoon. My money’s on--” The Warlock suddenly grabs the tablet and scrolls furiously through the list. The Hunter grabs a menu and smacks her friend over the head. “Dude. I told you to bring your own tablet.”

“Hang on, I thought-- stop hitting me-- I thought I saw something pop up. Yeah, right here.” The Warlock flicks the screen and projects the registered fireteams on the far wall. “Look. Right now they’re preparing for Fireteam Sahra and… Fireteam _Gambit_.”

A stunned quiet falls over them. Oil burbles in the kitchen as a few wontons skim the surface. “You don’t think…” the Titan mumbles.

The ramen chef switches off the stovetop and warily eyes the trio. “Has any of you seen the Drifter in action? No? Well, are you gonna pass up on the chance that it might actually be him?”

* * *

The solo queue for Crimson Doubles is, in the kindest words possible, a hit or miss. Sometimes two Warlocks running Nova will pair against two Storm Titans. Other times, it’ll be an all-out brawl between four Hunters who forgo sniper rifles for blades. Even at its worst, the paired Guardians don’t have to see each other again for the rest of the event.

You sign up early for the tournament and place your name in the public pool, then think nothing of it until the morning of the match.

In the antechamber, a room furnished with multiple screens and various transmat chambers for each unique arena, you arrive at exactly the same time as your new partner. Stepping through the door, the two of you silently regard each other. They’re a Hunter clad in dark, burnished leather and a gleaming mask heavily reminiscent of the Tangled Shore. Their cloak is torn and ripped despite every Ghost’s inherently ability to repair matterweave. The weapons slung around their shoulders, however, are well-maintained.

Well, at least your shaders match. “Hey, partner,” you say casually. “What do I call you?”

“Whatever you like, I guess,” they say, voice heavily filtered by the mask. They clear their throat and it sounds like a block of static erupting from their modulator. “You, uh, you running Solar?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Don’t know yet. I’ll figure it out.”

You blink. “Have you… done Crimson Doubles before?”

“Nope,” they reply, absentmindedly scratching at the base of their mask. A twinge of mild irritation forces you to grit your teeth and steel yourself. Of course you’d be paired with someone with no experience in the game. Maybe they expect you to slay the enemies all by your lonesome; maybe they hope to take advantage of the buffs once you’re dead.

The comms link crackles. “THREE MINUTES REMAINING! PREPARE YOURSELVES, GUARDIANS!”

The Hunter visibly balks at the bellowing voice. Then shaking off the revulsion, they fashion knives from Light; you watch curiously as their blades take on hues of electric blue, melted gold, and vicious violets. True to their word, the Hunter dismisses the Light without settling on a certain affinity. They glance over to you. “Hey, Guardian,” they say suddenly, “If we win, drinks afterwards, okay?”

“I have plans with someone already.”

“Oh. Really?” Amusement laces their veiled voice. The Hunter leans against the transmat chamber door and folds their arms across their broad chest, watching as you finish registering your weapons and enter the chamber.

“Yeah. Really. Gambit. You heard of it?”

“Sure. But, uh, Gambit’s cancelled,” the Hunter says lightly. “I figured all eyes would be on Doubles. Take the day off, kick up our feet. But we could do whatever else. We could, uh, go get ramen, or get drunk. Might have to wash up first. Do you think they have showers here?”

The part of your mind unfettered by adrenaline sharply ricochets between indignation and confusion. The Hunter easily levels with your gaping stare as they set a lazy hand on the hand canon jammed in their waistband. You just know that they’re smirking behind that mask. And their stance, their Light, their rambling, easygoing manner-- wrapped up in uncomfortable familiarity. But you refuse to believe it. You don’t even want to _entertain_ the possibility, at least until--

“ONE MINUTE REMAINING! FIRETEAM GAMBIT, ARE YOU READY?”

The Hunter bobs their head. “Oh yeah, and I picked out our team name.”

“Oh my-- You have got to be kidding me. _Drifter?_ ”

“And there it is. Took you long enough! Hey, trust me, this is gonna be hilarious later.”

“Get in here or else it’ll transmat without you. Gods, what are you wearing? What are you _doing_ here?”

“It’s Crimson Doubles and you don’t ask your local Drifter to be your partner?”

* * *

 The enemy Guardian leaps off a pillar and seems to hang in the air, still, motionless, before Void coalesces around its cloaked figure.

Like a reflex, the Light trickles into your hands as you lift them with a sudden, burning dawn-- then the Drifter tackles you behind a nearby wall, ignoring the explosions ricocheting off the vine-strewn floors. “Stay down!” he hisses as he pushes your helmet down, glancing over his shoulder. In the next moment, he’s rolled on his back and fires six shots, six dull echoes in your head.

You’ve never seen him fight so furiously against other Guardians. It took your breath away to watch him spit bullets at your shared enemies and the awe nearly killed you a few times. In fact, you were the first casualty; your mind was still grasping the idea that the Drifter was in Crimson Doubles, not to mention he probably hijacked the system to be your ‘random’ partner. Sunlight reflected off a sniper’s visor, then you were shoved back into the world, newfound breath and energy pumping through your veins. The Drifter had grabbed your arm and checked you from head to toe. “Pay attention, okay?” he demanded.

Between rounds, he grabs your hips and knocks his head against yours. He makes no effort to hide his hunger for your touch. “Damn mask,” he pants, running a shaky hand down your armor, “Can’t breathe, can’t speak, can’t kiss you--”

You seize a fistful of his ruined cloak and the Drifter shudders as you threaten, “If you grab my ass in front of the cameras again, I’m going to kill you--”

Transmat energy tickles at your atoms and the two of you wrench apart, breathing heavily, glaring at each other until your Ghosts replace your helmets. The Drifter and his Gambit are still just rumors at the City. Risking any sort of publicity could invite the Vanguard’s suspicion. Even the fireteam’s name brought about whispers once it appeared on the tourney register. When Shaxx read aloud the name, _Gambit_ , it was a familiar mystery. He’d heard it passed around the Guardians like a secret. He’s also never seen this Hunter with onyx spider eyes, but he fights as well as any seasoned veteran.

And the Drifter fights _dirty_. He’s not averse to baiting revives or suddenly switching affinities. The enemy Guardians expected the Golden Gun to sing through the arena, and then found themselves caught off guard by a whirlwind Blade Barrage. He memorizes the map instantly and pushes you out of danger without ever bringing harm to himself. It quickly becomes clear: The Drifter won’t take a bullet for you, but he’ll entertain vengeance.

You race to victory, annihilating the enemy Guardians until a final announcement slices through the battle-drowned adrenaline. “A DECISIVE VICTORY TO FIRETEAM GAMBIT! WELL FOUGHT, GUARDIANS!”

As the arena cameras power off, the Drifter rips off his mask, then yours, and kisses you long and hard as the transmat takes you back into the antechamber.


	2. kiss my eyes

His rough gloves and his beard burn against your skin as he wrestles you into the shower stalls. The Drifter kicks off his boots and nearly slips on the slick tile floors before you seize his dark robes and pin him fast on the wall; his head cracks on the tile. An audible groan slips from him and he strains forward to kiss you while adrenaline still races through your bodies.

Then he suddenly presses a finger against your lips as light pours through an open doorway in the main chamber. Even if you didn’t recognize the indomitable silhouette, there’s no mistaking the voice.

“Guardian? Are you here?”

The Drifter rolls his eyes and you smile sheepishly before stepping away back into the main chamber.

Lord Shaxx sees you and his frame goes rigid. His helmet cants to the side. He’s probably not used to the sight of unarmored Guardians even if you’re modestly clothed from the neck down. He clears his throat and continues boldly, “Forgive the intrusion. I would commend your victory. Swiftly met and worthy of the highest accolades. I would, ah, ask if your partner was still around. I haven’t seen a Hunter of their caliber in the Crucible.”

Forcing an apologetic smile on your face, you shake your head. “I’m sorry. They left almost immediately.”

“Oh,” Shaxx says. “I’m surprised. The two of you fought so well-- why, it was a spectacular example of the Crimson Bond. You truly have no idea of their whereabouts? Their identity?”

“I’m sorry,” you say again, resisting every urge to glance over to the Drifter, “but if I cross paths with them again, I’ll recommend them to the Crucible.”

He recoils in surprise. “Guardian, I hoped you would realize that you fought besides someone who brought out the best in you; and vice versa. We were all watching the two of you. The fluidity, the absolute synchronization of thoughts and actions, and their destructive vengeance was a sight to behold, not that I could warrant underhanded tricks in the official record-- and yet!” Shaxx clasps his hands together and takes a deep breath. “What I’m trying to say is: You don’t find a bond like that every day. Now. Excuse me, I have more Crimson Doubles matches to oversee.”

Once he disappears through the exit, you exhale and relax your tense stance-- right into the Drifter’s waiting arms.

“What a romantic fool,” the Drifter murmurs as he slips your lightwear over your head, then shrugs off the rest of his clothes. “Waxing poetic.”

“Mmm. I kinda like Shakespeare.”

“Who?”

You sigh yet press closer against his scarred chest. What a sight, a Guardian sinking deeper into the warmth of a Rogue Lightbearer as your hands intertwine. “You are… the least romantic person I have ever met.”

He barks a laugh and throws his head back, shoulders shaking, in that genuine sort of mirth. “What gave it away?” the Drifter asks as he spins you round, picks you up in his arms, and then goes back into the stalls. You wrap your legs around his waist as he kisses you heartily, his nails digging into your curves and seams. You hear distant pipes rumbling and then hot steam slowly floods the room. Sweat, condensation, slick-- the heat clouds and creates a haze in your mind which only drives you to kiss the Drifter.

“What-- what was it like?” he asks, readjusting his stance as he pins you on the wall, aimlessly rocking his hips against yours. “Dyin’ because of another Guardian? Hm?”

“I deserved it,” you whisper back, and the Drifter pulls his head back to stare at you.

Shock evident in those strange, bright eyes, shining the colors of Gambit. You palm down his scarred shoulders and chest, tracing the raised marks as you have done countless times before. _This one,_ he told you, _from scrappin’ with a Gladiator. That one, from tryin’ to use a Hive Knight’s shield against a dozen Cursed Ones._ Some are subtle (like the small incisions which curve under his pectorals) and some are violent (such as the heavy, rigid laceration on his right bicep).

“I didn’t-- pay attention,” you continue, each passing moment harder to breathe in the drenched air. “I deserved all of it--"

The Drifter shakes his head. “No, don’t say that,” he says in an unexpectedly gentle tone. “You didn’t deserve it. You just--” He groans and kneels his forehead against yours, the warmth where you begin and he ends grows exponentially-- “You just gotta fight better. Learn from your mistakes. Yeah?”

You flash a sharp smile. “If I didn’t know better, it sounds like you actually care--”

And then your words fizzle and sputter as the Drifter grinds his palm against your front, and you whine, bucking up into his touch, needing more, _wanting_ more. He teases for a while longer then works a careful finger into you, then another, then a third finger, and you’re scoring your nails down his broad back. He responds by silencing your protests with a kiss. He breaks away but his mouth doesn’t stray far. “Oh,” he groans, relishing in the despair and urgency in your movements, “ _Oh_ \--”

The Drifter shifts his hips and sinks inside you, desperately and urgently, and then meets you for another kiss. You are-- _warm_ around him, and his breath is hot on your ear as you move slowly on his cock.

“ _Darkling I listen--_ ”

These words are not his, but heard from another in a time vastly different from now--

“ _and, for many a time--_ "

And the broken pieces in his mind fade for a moment, and for a moment, all of the anger and the agony and the vengeance in his life is _nothing_ compared to this. And it passes, but you are still here in his arms, kissing him, ignoring how no one before has ever had the consideration to kiss a rogue, a killer like him, ignoring his righteous ghosts. And the Drifter whispers these borrowed words, not because he likes to wax poetic--

“ _I have been half in love with easeful Death._ ”

\--but you are as fleeting as the written word. Tangible. Fragile. Reverent. Brief.

The Drifter sees the corner of your lips tug up into a surprised smile and you laugh breathlessly. “Really? Keats?” you ask, cupping his jaw. “You don’t know Shakespeare, but you can quote ‘Ode to a Nightingale’?”

He kisses your fingers, invites them into his warm mouth, and sucks at them with eyes half-closed. “Spur of the moment,” he replies hoarsely. The Drifter grips your waist tighter and then drives his hips at a faster pace. He could break you, bruise you, raw you in such a moment of passion, not intimacy, but that thread of self-restraint is your only anchor to him--

And then you’re _gone_ , spilling over the brink, gasping his name over and over and over again as he chases his own release at his own pace. Overstimulating your aching sex, still wielding that upper hand as he grins and groans quietly when he comes inside you. The Drifter pushes his hair out of his sweaty face to look at your blushing face, then ducks his head and works his teeth against your neck in the descending glow, the lazy aftermath.

* * *

 As you examine the dark, purplish bruise in the mirror, the Drifter watches from the messy, untidy bed. Earth lazes outside _The Derelict’s_ windows. He lounges like a stray cat in the morning warmth. Indifferent to covering up his naked body, his eyes brazenly roves over yours. He makes an appreciative noise in the back of his throat. “Damn,” he says. “What does a Guardian have to do to get lingerie like that?”

You pick up the nearest item-- a rinse cup-- and toss it at him. He catches it easily. “It’s none of your business,” you reply, kneeling at the edge of the bed. “But if you’re nice--”

“If _I’m_ nice? I let you cum first.”

“--I might tell you.”

The Drifter shifts his weight forward and leans in for a kiss-- then, like an afterthought, he strokes the hickey on your neck. “I feel sorry for the Vanguard. And the Traveler,” he says absentmindedly. “They’d probably scold me. Corruptin’ the youth. Causin’ havoc. Tell me that I have no business with someone as good as you. Fuck ‘em.”

You gently grasp his hands. “I don’t think that I ask for a lot of things,” you tell him, then plant a kiss on his knuckles, “but I want you, and I think you want me, too. Who’s to say that we deserve otherwise?”

He lurches forward, grabs the nape of your neck, and his lips hover above yours. His breath hitches; he hesitates. “Drifter,” you whisper, stroking his scars, and he moans quietly.

“Say it-- again, say my name again,” he pleads.

“ _Drifter._ ” You wet your lips and then kiss him, closing the space between your mouths in his uncertainty. Slow. Languid. Like your first kiss; like a last kiss. A moment which stretches into a memory. He sighs into your mouth, murmurs something like _Oh, Darkling_ , before guiding you back on the still-warm sheets.


	3. epilogue

Shaxx hopes to catch a glimpse of this so-called Black Armory before dusk settles completely. These weapons in the Crucible, old tech that’s been revitalized and empowered, are sleek, refined, and heavy-hitting. And now someone’s gone and found the blueprints for the Last Word and he wants to know if the caustic Ada-1 is at fault. He learned its entrance through the bazaar and perhaps, he’ll see some of his favorite warriors hanging around.

He pauses to admire the street graffiti in one of the underground tunnels. Colonel, Cayde-6’s feathered friend, strikes a prominent pose.

Then a horrible, clanging noise echoes further down the hall, followed by livid cursing in another language. A paint can rolls in front of Shaxx, leaving a streak of ochre yellow along the cobblestone. Another crash. More foul language. Shaxx hurries towards the clamor, turns the corner, and sees an oddly-dressed Guardian struggle to their feet.

“Goddamnit--!” they swear again, and with a swift kick, send another can flying as an arc of royal blue paints the storage shelves. The Guardian huffs and tugs up their hood-- except they grasp at empty air, realizing that they’re wearing a Titan helm. Shaxx sees the gleam of a Warlock bond in the half-light and takes a moment to wonder if this is a dare challenge among the Kinderguardians.

He takes a deep breath and bellows, “HEY! YOU!”

The Guardian whips their head around.

“YEAH, YOU!”

They run.

Shaxx sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the drifter doesn't have a proper set of armor so he just grabs whatever is in his closet
> 
> i wrote this and didn't know where to put it ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ also how about that season of the drifter?


End file.
